Unspoken longings
by I'm Nova
Summary: Mycroft's brolly was used to a different life. Now, it dreams...and fantasizes... Sort-of brollylock for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge 22.


_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

Unspoken longings

I am a Bulgarian umbrella. No, not in the sense that I am a bottle of the Bulgarian wine brand 'Umbrella' (that never ceases to make me giggle – hope it's not diluted with raindrops). And not even in the sense that I'm a brolly fabricated or bought in Bulgaria. I'm one hundredth per cent British, thank you very much. No, I'm Bulgarian in the sense that I shoot poison darts. Since a Bulgarian dissident named Georgi Markov was killed by one of my grannys (this one of actual Bulgarian fabrication) during Cold War – it happened in London, by the way – the name has stuck to all our kind.

But you're not here for a history lesson. Honestly, I'm not sure why you're here. Unless it's raining, of course. Or unless your life is being threatened. Both would be perfectly sound reasons to borrow me up – if you can persuade Mycroft Holmes to relinquish his hold on me. Which might be harder than you'd think.

Of course, I'm government-issued, and I've been assigned to him when he was a bright young thing with ambitious plans and a lot less power (we have history, Mycroft and I) so he's both responsible for me and…I hesitate to say so, but maybe he's grown slightly fond of me over the years. Or he's still afraid for his life (who would know to target him now I'm not sure…maybe that Moriarty lad, a bit.)

But the truth is – I know why he keeps me close, but it's demeaning to me and speaks of our failures. Which is why I'm trying to gather the courage to speak of it. Better to remember the good times before. Our sort-of honeymoon (we had one, Mycroft and I). We had just met – Mycroft so young, and bright, and _intense_. And having to do legwork – plenty of legwork – to prove himself, because he still had to take, not give orders.

We saw most of Europe, and a bit of Asia and Africa. We pretended – oh, how we pretended. I masqueraded as a perfectly ordinary brolly. He played evil, played distressed, played whatever the situation required. Sherlock isn't the only one in the family with the acting talent. There's art in their blood, you see – I suppose that's the reason.

Those were the days I got to shot more often than not. I'm always unnoticed, and then…his finger caressing my hidden trigger, and the utter satisfaction of doing what I've been built for. Of emptying my long-loaded body. Of taking down the evil ones myself. I lived for that thrill. Mycroft didn't – I realized that – but as long as he feeded my addiction, I didn't care.

Then came Instanbul. We _failed_ in Instanbul. We were captured (Sherlock alone does not have the disputable honour of botching assignments). I wasn't recognized as a weapon – they thought me part of his cover. That's the only reason I survived with only a bit of rough handling. He…well, we weren't together, so I know no details. I know that it wasn't pleasant, to understate things as we British should. And I know – thank God for that – that he managed to save himself and escape, and recover me in the process. He hobbled away, helping steady himself with me.

That was our last assignment in the field. Instead of being dismissed, though, Mycroft received a promotion, so I suppose that last time he hadn't botched things entirely at least. Sometimes, in the deadest of sleepless nights, I wonder if he might have calculated everything and gotten himself caught on purpose…but not even someone constitutionally mad like a Holmes would do that, surely?

If only because that assignment brought a longstanding fallout we've had to learn to live with, the both of us. Mycroft's legs are weaker now. He's more easily tired. Really, a cane would be the way to go. But he won't show weakness, in this world of sharks. So there I am, for him to lean on. I've been demoted – but I couldn't protect him in Instanbul, and if this is my penance, then so be it. It's not like I can complain about the use he makes of me. And I understand – hell, I _appreciate_ – his proud character. I am fond of Mycroft, really.

Still, I was born a fighter. And now the most of excitement I get is the occasional heavy rain hitting my canopy. I couldn't help but start hoping that he would let me go, buy another brolly to lean on and bequeath me to someone else. What can I say, I'm going stircrazy. I'm frustrated, not having unloaded in seemingly forever. More than anything, I'm bored to tears – if I had eyes, of course – of never seeing any sort of action.

Hence, I started to dream. Impossible dreams, probably. He would never bestow me to a nameless field operative, that I realized. And anyway an agent would have his own umbrella, one of my sisters. Which is why I fixated myself – maybe a tad obsessively, I shall admit it – on the younger Holmes brother.

I wasn't sure of what he did, exactly, but Mycroft had gone to his brother in order to offer him 'cases' often enough to make me sure that Sherlock's life held all the excitement I craved. Sherlock's days – and nights – were packed with facing various fiends…some of whose would undoubtedly have benefitted from the appropriate placement of a poison dart. Not everyone could go to jail – hadn't the doctor already killed someone for him? Wouldn't it be better if Sherlock could defend himself without having to rely on his flatmate?

I fantasized. Sherlock would get hurt during the Work – not very bad, you understand, I couldn't wish ill on him – but he'd get hurt, because John would be unable to get to him in time. My owner would finally realise that his beloved little brother needed that extra layer of protection and at the first occasion, he'd present me to his sibling. Maybe with an elegant red bow to accentuate my natural beauty. Even if playing dress up for Sherlock would probably be deemed useless, and it was more probable that I'd be thrust awkwardly into unwilling hands. Unwilling, I hoped, only until Mycroft explained my secrets and how useful I could be.

When after years of such ardent dreams Serbia happened, for a moment I was afraid that all my intense fantasizing had managed to move something in the universe and so brought about their realization – and Sherlock's plight with it. And yet, I couldn't quell the surge of shameful excitement and hopefulness I felt at the same time. Maybe…maybe now, finally…

Because the doctor wasn't anymore at Sherlock's side, always ready to protect – that much I knew – and Mycroft prepared to go on a mission once again, and no matter how ecstatic I was about it (I almost unloaded myself on my own because of my excitement) that could only mean that Sherlock was in deep trouble. Mycroft wouldn't be back in the field for anyone else.

And then – oh, some sort of brolly god was laughing at me, dashing my dearest hopes with great delight. I supposed I deserved it, too…would I ever cease to pay for failing in Instanbul? Because it wasn't raining (why wasn't it raining? Certainly it should) and Mycroft's persona was a ruthless individual with no weaknesses, least of all an unjustifiable fondness for umbrellas. Which meant that _he_ was back on the field and _I_ couldn't be at his side. I lay forgotten on the plane that brought us there. There was enough to go mad with frustration.

When he was back, though, little brother in tow, for a moment I really hoped that my dreams would have come true. I expected to be loaned at least. Even if only as a makeshift cane, at the moment Sherlock was certainly the one who needed me the most…and maybe he'd later forget to return me (I could dream).

Instead, Mycroft's solution to this deplorable incident involved bringing his dear sibling promptly back in the doctor's range of action. Well, I suppose Sherlock needed a doctor right then, so it made sense. I couldn't help the deep disappointment I felt, though. And allowing John back into the detective's life wasn't a very bright idea. Judging from the white-knuckled grip he held me with while watching the video feed of the reunion, Mycroft had realised it too – too late to be useful, though. I idly wondered if the doctor would be eliminated now for adding to injuries he'd been too blinded by rage to notice, but apparently my owner didn't want to deal with the sure to come epic sulk such an action would evoke.

It seemed for certain that I was cursed, because once again there was a bit of action at Christmas – and once again, I missed it. As always, my beloved Sherlock – or, in short, mon Sher (Mycroft wasn't the only one who could make witty conversation in a dozen languages) – had prompted the upcoming chaos. If I just had been there – if they'd make use of me…I was much less conspicuous than John's bloody gun (that got the job done, certainly, but it was so…crude).

But Mycroft didn't need to keep up appearances at home – not even when there were exceptionable guests like "Mary" Watson – so I lay forgotten in his office at the time, languishing in solitude. Yearning for my owner to take pity on me and bring me to visit Sherlock once again (and maybe leave me behind).

At least, he brought me along on the tarmac. I would get a last look. And still, I hoped – yearned – prayed. Surely Sherlock would need all the protection he could have in East Europe? If he was to survive (fine, he _wasn't_ to survive, we both knew that and it broke our heart, but when had that kid ever done what anyone told him to?) surely one more weapon would be welcome? I could have redeemed myself with the younger one after having failed the older brother. I _could,_ if only Mycroft would leave me.

Of course, I knew that he wouldn't, and I knew why too. He was pressing down on me so hard, and while he seemed perfectly normal, I bore almost all his weight. Grief and heartbreak would have made him fall down in a miserable heap without my help – and that he couldn't afford. Not just because 'Mary' was there. Because _Sherlock_ had asked him to pretend all was normal and _fine_ , (for the doctor's sake, of course – always for his sake – oh, how I envied the man who got the share of adventure and adrenaline I craved for myself!) and Mycroft would be damned before he disattended his little brother's last wish.

But then, oh then – Sherlock was safe. I shared my owner's relief and couldn't help but immediately start pondering who'd do something like this. Mycroft himself when I wasn't looking with footage from the time Moriarty had been our esteemed guest? A grateful Mrs. Smallwood who'd somehow gotten access to the same footage?

Janine? (I had my suspects about Sherlock's Irish cough lover cough). 'Mary'? (I was almost sure that Moriarty's service was in her cv). The elusive 'Tiger', Moriarty's second in command, on whose info had been so scarce Sherlock had started to think it was simply a scary tale invented to keep the more hotheaded employees behaving (but the sleuth was known to occasionally get things wrong), not wanting the detective to fly out of range of his revenge? (If we accepted that 'Mary' and 'Tiger' were two different individuals, of which I wasn't certain).

And of course the scariest hypothesis of all: had Jim Moriarty faked his death at us? But that would mean that he had a mole in the government, to know when Sherlock was meant to leave. Unless…no, Mycroft would definitely bring me along to deal with such a dangerous individual.

Whoever it had been, my beloved Sher would now still be at home, still on cases – at least this one, puzzling case (but surely Mycroft would manage to strike some sort of better deal in the meantime). And since apparently someone had taken to realize my dreams (if only to spite them in the process) I decided to change my fantasies.

Even if they were a single force of nature when it counted, the Holmes boys still had a sibling rivalry a mile wide – it wasn't entirely an act to protect each brother from the other's enemies. So maybe Mycroft would annoy his little brother. Like always, but more than usual – he'd flaunt his superior intelligence, his lack of love for goldfishes to ruin his own life, or something like that. Sherlock would plan his revenge – and steal me.

"That's juvenile, Sherlock," Mycroft would say, and, "Give it back _right now_." But Sherlock would have discovered my secrets by then – of course he would, he's a smart boy – and loved me on sight, and refused to hand me back. Finally understanding that we needed each other more than he needed me, Mycroft would have relented and acquired another brolly to be a makeshift cane for himself.

Come on, umbrella god, twist and ruin this. I challenge you.

A shiver passed through my canopy (and it wasn't the wind). On second thought, with my reckless challenge I might have signed my own death sentence. I suddenly remembered the flatmate's complaints about my Sherlock's experiments and their destructive tendencies. He might very well decide to take me apart, once I was his hostage. But would he put me back together afterwards? Would he even know how to – or care about it? I didn't want to be destroyed – not by fire or acids, which seemed to be long time favourites of my beloved firecracker of a detective.

I just wanted some Work – was that too much to ask? Shouldn't the sleuth immediately empathize with my frustrated self? If only I could talk. Make my desires known in any way. I'm going mad here. For the love of God, Mycroft, I'm a weapon, not a cane or a wilting flower. Will you ever remember that?

Helpless to do anything on my own and beyond angry at my lot in this existence, I sit still on my stand – and dream. If you have Work for me, please – oh please! – wake me up. 


End file.
